WRITIST

Elizeya Quate is the nom of Edmund Zagorin, a writer and performer based in the Bay Area. Raised in Tenleytown DC and educated at the University of Michigan, Quate’s first book The Face of Our Town (KERNPUNKT Press, 2016) is a fun series of interconnected stories about the serious fun of interconnectedness. In December 2016, The Face of Our Town Kindle ebook achieved #1 Amazon Bestseller status in the category of Popular Culture: Antiques & Collectibles, and #8 Bestseller in the category of Short Story Collections. Quate’s publications include a nomination for Year’s Best Weird Fiction Vol. 3 (“Peru, Illinois” in Axolotl, 2015), Mad Swirl, Entropy Magazine, Spam Journal (UK), Ground Fresh Thursday, E-ratio, Big Lucks, Killer Whale, Intrinsick Magazine, Sparkle + Blink, Work to a calm, Maudlin House, Sleepingfish, Tahoma Literary Review, Minor Literatures, 3Elements Review, Chicago Literati, Two Cities Review, Joyland Michigan Writer's Series, The American Prospect, The Huffington Post, Critical Moment and the anthology Writing That Risks: New Work From Beyond The Mainstream (Redbridge Press, 2013). Quate has read at Quiet Lightning, Perfectly Queer, Inside StoryTime, Medium-Sized Living Room Concert, Bluestockings, Syracuse University, tNY Pre-AWP Showcase and has performed versions of Seminar on Autosophy at Think Tank Gallery, Adobe Books, The Convent, The Last Bookstore and the Pataphysical Research and Metachanics Union. Quate writes book reviews for The Los Angeles Review, and has made interactive talk/art for The Gallery Project, Start Gallery, Zajia Lab, Come Out & Play Festival and Odd Salon. Quate's chapbook "cra-que-lure" is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press, July 2018. @elizeyaquate

Elizeya Quate (b. 1988) is a madeofwords personthing coming to you live from inside the blast radius of our sexiest planetary catastrophe.Elizeya Quate is both below and above the fold; a fold-straddler. (Ouch!)Elizeya Quate has a tongue, sure. But don't let that fool you!Elizeya Quate argues that faces of the past do indeed gather just beneath our footprints, awaiting failed interpretation.Coo! Not Surface but Sous-face! Coo!Coo! Not Surrealism but Sous-realism! Coo!Elizeya Quate is on their knees, that ticklegrass quilling exposed nipples right here on your navel's edge, hands clasped with deep fervor, eyes tumid and sweetjuiced as late summer's blackberries.Begging for a semblance.Cooing for a sign.Cooing hard.Whoa! That's some damn fine cooing right thurr!Elizeya Quate (b. 2105) has a messed up heartbeat, cursive bodyhair and a half-missing recollection of bloodspattery slapstick outtakes.Elizeya Quate's middle name is the classic grawlix $#%! which US Americas-qwerties to 4,351. After many attempts at numerology, Elizeya Quate's best underface has concluded that this number belongs to you and you alone.Elizeya Quate has a talent for staying out of shapes. Because shapes are terrifying! Aren't they?Elizeya Quate is not agnostic but is rather ambignostic, believing that God & Co. both do & do not exist, on par with consensus reality and all those other whitebaby promises of a better, brighter future. Because doesn't the future both exist and not exist? Right? Not yet, at least? But also: yes-yet!?Elizeya Quate believes in the all-too-plausible likelihood of a really dumb future (planetarily & personally), a future rife with the aftershocks of 10,000 self-inflicted agonies. Elizeya Quate is a neither a fan of math, nor aftermath. Elizeya Quate is concerned that we have collectively enrolled Existence in an impossibly heavy courseload of both math and aftermath.Elizeya Quate tells aspiring smock-swaddled hierophants: OK, some prolegomena on the metaphysics of hyle ("hyle(/ˈhaɪliː/; from Ancient Greek: ὕλη) refers to ... stuff" -- Wikipedia): to be colorless is not to be without color, in the same way that shapelessness is not to be without shape. And believe me, this is really good news!We careless pessimists shall not have to re-earn our reputations, seeing as how we are already quite high in caliber and low in premium. Elizeya Quate wants to find your inner sunblaze aroused by the thought of crescentine footprints tracked across the sloping, yellowfurred belly of late summer, all the way up to the nob of a slumbering hillside where someone's real Existence once lived. Because there's a kind of amber-tinged eroticism to a trail of lost-looking footprints. I mean, isn't there? And nothing more wistful than watching as these two lines of footprints finally parting company, to trail apart beneath your gusts of empty, rushing wind.